The Pale Letter
14th of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1342 Magistrate Halloway, I write this by the light of a tallow candle that sputters and dies with every gust of wind that funnels through the cracks in the watchhouse walls. My left hand, the one that is meant to hold the quill, trembles with a violence that makes the ink spill in jagged, black tears across the parchment. I am Elias Thorne, your city...
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